


A Touch of Magic

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 19:37:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12732966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: There should be something horrifying about that. If he hadn't had his friends with him, Prompto'd be dead already, or at least some writhing, mindless daemon-snack-to-be, waiting to be eaten. Instead, the recollection of the incubus' skin, smooth and pale and flawless, sends a rush of want spearing through him.Well. So much for the spell not working.





	A Touch of Magic

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for FFXV NSFW week Day 4: Orgasm denial.
> 
> Please excuse the ending and the kind of disjointed feel to the writing. It suffered from me having to work on it in bits and pieces for not long stretches at a time. ^^

"How do you feel?" says Ignis' voice from somewhere above him.

Prompto blinks his eyes open to look at him. It's a long way up, considering he's stretched out on a zipped-open sleeping bag in the middle of the tent. "Just the fever so far," says Prompto, and presses his hand to his cheek. "Think you guys are overreacting."

"Hm," says Ignis, thoughtfully, and rubs at his chin with gloved fingers. "Perhaps. Still, better safe than sorry."

Prompto gets caught up on the gloves a little. He gets caught up on how slender Ignis' fingers are, and the flash of skin visible through the holes at the knuckles. He's wondered, more than once, what it would be like to have those gloved fingers on his bare skin, and he wonders again now.

Then he feels himself go bright red, and hopes the fever flush hides it.

"I mean," says Prompto. "You're sure it was an incubus?"

Ignis hesitates – then sits down beside him on the floor of the tent. "Fairly certain. The horns and the manner of dress match the descriptions I've read."

"Maybe this one was a novice," says Prompto, hopefully. "You know, like – its spells didn't work or something."

But when Ignis opens his mouth to reply, Prompto takes note of the way his lips part, and the faint flash of pink behind them: the moist hint of a tongue. "For your sake," says Ignis, "I most sincerely hope you're right."

Prompto hopes he's right, too. But the heat from the fever seems to be washing over him in waves. 

To try and take his mind off it, he says, "What's the big deal, anyway? I'm safe as long as I'm not actually around the daemon, right?"

"Safe, yes," says Ignis. "The effects, however, are said to be... unpleasant."

Prompto licks at his lips. "Unpleasant how?"

Ignis glances over at him – studies his face for a long moment before saying, "I suppose you've a right to know." He glances away again, uncharacteristically out of sorts. "Are you familiar with the way an incubus feeds?"

Prompto shakes his head, aware even as he does so that the heat is slowly creeping through his limbs, through his skin, through his bones. 

"An incubus requires two kinds of sustenance. The first is energy derived from sexual arousal. The second is physical nutrition."

At the words "sexual arousal," spoken in Ignis' smooth, even accent, Prompto's eyes slide shut, letting the heat wash over him.

"The spell it casts is designed to debilitate. It ramps up the desire of its prey and then sustains it. The victim is so caught up in its bodily demands that they lose the will to escape." Ignis adjusts his glasses. "When the daemon has its fill, it consumes them."

There should be something horrifying about that. If he hadn't had his friends with him, Prompto'd be dead already, or at least some writhing, mindless daemon-snack-to-be, waiting to be eaten. Instead, the recollection of the incubus' skin, smooth and pale and flawless, sends a rush of want spearing through him.

Well. So much for the spell not working.

His pants are way tighter than they were a minute ago, and it takes considerable effort to swallow. His mouth is suddenly very dry.

"So, uh. Hypothetically," says Prompto, opening his eyes again to sneak a glance at Ignis. "How long does this last?"

Ignis fixes him with a long, searching sort of look. His eyes trail downward, and he glances away, going slightly pink in the cheeks. "Ah. You're feeling the effects, then?"

"Dude," says Prompto. "Seriously. How long?"

Ignis clears his throat. "We have only a handful of accounts of incubus encounters. The rest of the victims, presumably, did not live to tell the tale." Ignis' voice is even and unwavering – like a professor, confident and intelligent and assured. It's not the first time Prompto's thought how sexy his voice is, but usually the thought doesn't come with a wave of arousal that floods through him like lava, scorching everything in its path. 

"Yeah?" Prompto manages. "Well, how bout for that handful?"

"The effect remained in place until the victims were able to access a remedy," says Ignis, a touch apologetic.

"Great," says Prompto.

"Fortunately," says Ignis, "there seems to have been somewhat of a delayed reaction, in your case. Gladio and Noct are halfway to the nearest gas station by now, I'm sure. You'll have a remedy in no time at all."

Prompto feels a new wash of desire sweep over him, more urgent than anything so far. He licks at his lips. "Still think it would've been easier to just go with them."

"There's no telling how you'll react once the spell fully takes hold," says Ignis. "It's safer by far to remain where we are."

"Yeah, well," says Prompto. "They better hurry. Think it's safe to say, the spell's fully taken hold."

Ignis glances over at him again – studies him for a moment with those calm green eyes. The man looks like one of the classical paintings that the Insomnian Museum of Art always used to advertise on train station billboards. It's not fair how pretty the line of his jaw is, or the shape of his lips, or the curve of those eyelashes, partly hidden behind the glasses.

"Ah," says Ignis.

Prompto squirms under his stare – glances away, blushing, to examine the tent's ceiling in great detail. "Look," says Prompto. "You wanna play King's Knight or something?"

"If you wish a distraction," says Ignis. "Certainly."

So that's how, two minutes later, Prompto finds himself running across the Nameless Plains, devastating hapless snakes with bolts of light while sporting a raging hard-on.

That's how, fifteen minutes later, Prompto gets wiped out twice on a round marked Novice, so very, very aware of the way he can feel every thread in his shirt and every gust of air across his skin.

That's how, thirty minutes later, Prompto has given up on the poor mage he's supposed to be leveling and instead is seriously considering banishing Ignis from the tent so he can have some alone time with his own hand.

The thought's barely occurred when Ignis' phone begins to ring.

Ignis kills the game instantly in favor of taking the call. "Yes?" he says, crisp and intent.

He listens for a moment – flickers his eyes Prompto's way. "Beginning to show the strain," says Ignis. And then: "I see."

"What?" says Prompto. "Are they on the way back?"

"We'll manage," says Ignis into the phone. "Do hurry, though. Yes. Yes, I will."

Ignis taps the button to end the call. He closes his eyes, and he opens them, and he says, "They seem to have gotten a flat tire."

Prompto groans. Out and out _groans_.

He's been taking this pretty well, he thinks. And by pretty well, he means he's actually kind of proud he hasn't shoved Ignis down onto the floor of the tent and kissed him senseless by now. Which, okay. Admittedly that impulse is always hovering somewhere in the depths of Prompto's mind, but it's never been so damn strong before. Usually he can block it out. Think about other things. Distract himself.

Now his fingers _itch_ , like he needs to get his hands on skin. Now he's harder than he thinks he's ever been, the pressure of his jeans against his erection borderline unbearable. Now he has to wait – how long? However long it takes for Noct and Gladio to get a tow truck, and get to someplace that can service the Regalia, and then get back with the remedy.

Gods, the closest service shop had better not be Hammerhead.

Prompto whimpers at the thought – drapes his arm over his eyes, so that he doesn't have to see that concerned, entirely too astute look that Ignis has fixed his way. He can feel the heat burning through his face when he says, "Look. Iggy. You think you could, uh. Give me some space?" He swallows. "I thought I could wait. But, like."

"Of course," says Ignis, and the tone is so understanding, so utterly judgement free, that Prompto feels like the worst person in the world for even having to ask. "If you need anything, I'll be outside."

And oh gods, does Prompto need something.

He barely waits until Ignis ducks through the tent flap before he's fumbling with his jeans.

His hands feel clumsy and strange; he paws at the fabric ineffectually before he manages to take hold of the zipper, and even that, the blunt pressure of his own hand, is borderline too much.

He hisses when he gets them open – gasps when he shoves at his underwear until his cock springs free. He feels like he should be embarrassed that he's this hard already, but he's too caught up in the feel of his own fingers to care.

When they wrap around the length of him, it's like an electric shock straight up his spine. His hips rock into the touch, and he bites his lip, hard, to force down the moan.

Do not, he tells himself. It is awkward enough for poor Iggy as it is. You keep your mouth shut, and you get this over with, and with any luck Gladio and Noct will break a couple speed limits on the way back.

But it's surprisingly hard to stay quiet. 

Prompto's had his parents' house more or less to himself since he was all of about eight. Most parts them being constantly away on business kind of sucked, but there were a couple of perks. For one, when puberty came knocking, that meant he didn't have to tamp down on his enjoyment of his own body. He could be as loud as he wanted, whenever he wanted to, when he was experimenting in his room.

On the flip side, that means he doesn't have any practice reining it in _now_.

He works at his cock with urgent tugs, and he bites down on his lip, and he has to keep a portion of himself concentrating on not making this even more awkward than it already is. And for the most part, he thinks he's pretty good about it. Sure, he's breathing kind of heavy, but Iggy's not right outside the tent. He's got this.

Anyway, he won't have to keep it up for long. He feels like he's been teetering on the brink for years. Every twist and drag of his own fingers over heated flesh has him seeing stars. It's the best jerk-off session he's ever had, hands down. If an incubus ever decided to give up the whole eating people schtick and go into business, it could make a tidy fortune selling the effects of this spell, because sweet gods, everything feels amazing.

Prompto's hyper aware of the fabric of his clothes – of the feel of his own teeth digging into his lip – of the bead of sweat tracing its way down the back of his neck.

He's almost there. He can feel the muscles in his thighs drawing up tight, and the telltale coil of heat low in his belly.

He tightens his grip – strokes a bit faster. He can taste it on the back of his tongue; he's that close. His hips start lifting themselves up into his own fist, urging him on.

It's got to be any second now. Prompto's never been more turned on in his life.

But a second becomes a minute, and a minute becomes five, and then fifteen.

His wrist's starting to ache. His whole body is the approximate temperature of the sun, and he feels like he's seconds away from the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life.

Still.

With a breathless whimper of frustration, Prompto makes himself let go.

Immediately, he decides that letting go is the worst idea ever. The absence of his own hand strikes him like a physical blow, and he groans, long and loud, and scrambles to swap in the other hand.

So much for keeping it down.

Not that there was any question about what he was doing before, but dammit, Ignis didn't have to hear it.

Ignis. The thought catches in his mind, and his hand stutters in its rhythm. He pictures that flawless skin and chiseled jaw, eyes the color of something growing in the shade.  He pictures Ignis wrapped in a towel after his turn in the camper shower, and Ignis' tongue darting out to taste his own cooking, and Ignis legs, smooth and shapely, crossed prim and proper when he sits in a chair.

Prompto groans again. He thinks his lip's bleeding, he's biting down on it so hard, but he's afraid what noises might slip out if he lets up.

His free hand wanders up his torso – rucks up his shirt to pluck at his nipples. He just needs a push, that's all. Just a tiny bit more, to shove him over the edge.

But the shivery jolts of pleasure rile him up, and up, and then – nothing. Nothing happens.

He thinks he's going a little crazy. He's been toe-curlingly close for... how long now? Half an hour? His balls are starting to ache. His cock's absolutely dripping, precome slicking his palm as he chases the completion that hovers just out of reach.

He needs... something. He needs something else. 

Or maybe some _one_ else.

The thought brings twin tendrils of want and mortification flooding through him, and Prompto whimpers again.

Oh no, he tells himself sternly. No way in hell. No way his first time is gonna be under some daemon spell in a tent in the middle of nowhere with the guy he's been crushing on for literal years. No way he's begging for a pity fuck. Just no.

It's not happening.

No matter how desperate he gets. 

It's a great resolution.

Prompto lasts almost three hours before he breaks it. He lasts until he's damn near worn himself out, and both wrists ache something awful. He's been reduced to just kind of rubbing himself with the palm of one hand, because the thought of outright stopping spears through him like a jagged knife. He's long since kicked his pants off – tried fingering himself for a while, to see if that helped, but it didn't do him any more good than this.

So here he is, legs spread, cock drooling, swallowing down the last of his pride to say, "Hey, Iggy?"

"Yes?" says Ignis, immediately. He's checked in periodically, throughout. Asked a couple of times if Prompto needed anything. 

Somehow, Prompto's sure this isn't what he had in mind.

"Uh," says Prompto. "Are Gladio and Noct coming back soon?"

He hears an indrawn breath. "The tow truck's just arrived. I'm afraid we've a while yet to wait."

Gods. Only just _now_? How much longer does that mean still to go? Hours? He's going to lose his mind by them. 

"How are you holding up?" says Ignis, softly.

It's a perfect opening. He couldn't ask for anything better. But somehow, he thought it would be easier to get the words out. They stick in his throat, and the humiliation burns through him, hot and thick. His palm's still working at his cock, restless rubbing, and it gives a twitch of anticipation.

Prompto swallows. "Uh," he says. "Nothing's – nothing's working."

There's a beat of silence.

At last Ignis says, "Pardon?"

Prompto's face gets even hotter. "I can't, uh. It's not helping."

"You're unable to reach completion," says Ignis, tone smooth and put-together and utterly inflectionless, and Prompto wants to sob, because he's pretty sure that's the sexiest thing he's ever heard in his life.

"Yeah," says Prompto. "You, uh. You got any suggestions?"

The silence is longer, this time. At last, Ignis says, "It may be that the spell is designed to render the target reliant on another."

"Seems kinda mean," says Prompto, and then immediately kicks himself for ten kinds of idiot, because of course it's mean; it's a spell from a man-eating daemon.

Prompto's sure that if there wasn't magic coursing through his veins, he would have gone soft in humiliation by now, but no. His cock's just as eager, rock-hard and yearning. His palm's damp with his own precome, and it's just not enough.

"I suppose it makes sense," says Ignis, "if you happen to be an incubus."

Prompto squeezes his eyes closed, like he can somehow shut out the embarrassment. He licks at his lips, and he says, "Look. This is – really weird. I know it's really weird, okay? But could you, like, give a guy a hand?"

From Ignis, there's silence. Huge, roaring, utter silence.

Prompto squeezes his eyes closed tighter, wishing Titan would crack a hole in the rock so that he could fall down to the center of the world and disappear. But the want thrumming through his blood makes him find his voice, and it comes out uneven. "I know, dude. And I wouldn't ask, okay? But it's – it's getting pretty bad."

More silence. Silence that stretches for eons. Before the world was formed, there was silence like this, solid and immovable.

At last, Ignis says, "I couldn't take advantage."

Prompto laughs then, shaky and bitter. "Dude. If anyone's taking advantage, it's me."

"You're not in your right mind," says Ignis.

"My mind's _fine_ ," says Prompto. "It's the body that's the problem."

"You're under the effects of powerful magic."

"I know," says Prompto. "And I'm dying over here. C'mon, Iggy, please. Don't make me beg."

He will, too. He's that far gone. His whole body's screaming for it, and every nerve is alive and alert and greedy for more.

"Iggy?" says Prompto again, hopefully.

There's no answer. There's only more of that silence, so thick you could cut it with a knife. Prompto squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back.

"Look," says Prompto, and feels that hot rush of shame wash over him again. "I get it. This sucks. And I know you're not into me, and I know this is – selfish and kind of shitty, for me to ask." Prompto bites at his lip as his palm grazes a particularly sensitive spot. "But just. Please? It kind of hurts."

The silence keeps going for so long that Prompto thinks Ignis has outright walked away.

Then, finally, Ignis' voice comes: "May I come in?"

"Uh," says Prompto. "Yeah. I mean – um, but I'm kind of."

He's not sure what it is that makes him scrabble for his vest, to pull it over his exposed cock. Some semblance of dignity, maybe. But even with the cloth in place, he can't stop palming himself, and the fabric makes it obscenely obvious what he's doing underneath.

"Okay," says Prompto, when it's in place. "I'm good."

There's a long pause, and then Ignis pulls open the tent flap and steps inside.

Prompto can't bear to look him in the face. He knows how he has to look: splayed out on the floor, legs spread wide, pants shucked to one side and shirt rucked up, hiding the fact that he's still trying to rub himself off behind a thin layer of cloth.

"Sorry," Prompto says again, miserably, but can't quite bring himself to stop.

Ignis clears his throat, a soft and elegant sort of sound. "That's quite all right," he says, and Prompto hears him coming closer.

"May I sit down?" says Ignis, a moment later, and Prompto nods once, jerkily.

Ignis lowers himself to the tent floor, and gods – even the proximity of another person is making it worse. His cock twitches and flexes, somehow even harder, and he bites down on a whimper.

There's a beat of awkward silence, and Prompto wishes, suddenly and fiercely, that the incubus who did this to him would just drop dead. Way to ruin his chances with the hottest man to ever walk Eos – not like he ever had much of a chance to begin with.

At least before, he could look Ignis in the eye. At least before, he hadn't dragged one of his only friends into some weird sex magic thing because he's too weak to handle it himself.

"May I?" says Ignis, and Prompto's throat goes dry.

He nods once, convulsively. "Yeah," he manages to croak out.

Ignis' hand slips his way – disappears beneath the fabric of his vest. Cool, slender fingers trace gently over the back of Prompto's hand. They close there, and give a reassuring squeeze.

Then Ignis slips his hand beneath Prompto's, and curls it around his cock.

Prompto's breath leaves him all in a rush, punched out of him so hard it feels like that one time he got caught with the flat of an iron giant's sword. He tries to make a noise – finds that he can't – jerks his hips up, helplessly, toward the touch.

Everything seems laser focused on that single point of contact. Every nerve in Prompto's body is awake and screaming for more. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat.

He brings his free hand up to clutch at Ignis' arm, willing him to move – to do something to ease the ache that's pulling him apart from the inside.

But Ignis hesitates at the touch, glancing toward Prompto's face.

Prompto all but whines at the delay, garbled words that spill over into, "Iggy, gods, please," and finally, after what feels like an eternity, Ignis starts to move.

It's – overwhelming. It's _everything_. He's never had another person's hand on him before, but he's pretty sure it's not supposed to be this intense.

He can feel every tiny motion as Ignis' talented hand slides over his cock. The upstrokes involve the swipe of a thumb over the head, and some kind of divine twist of Ignis' wrist, and Prompto thinks he must have died doing something heroic and is being rewarded by the gods, because he's never felt anything even a fraction of this good, _ever_.

Thirty seconds in, he's sure he's about to go off like a firework, all heat and light and spontaneous celebration. A minute in, he can feel the build ramping slowly up again, that promise of mind-blowing pleasure creeping in low in his stomach and coiling there, in wait.

"Please," Prompto gasps again, and it's a wet, needy sound, and Ignis gives him a look that's all concern and kindness and speeds the pace of his hand.

Prompto's almost there. He's almost there. He's clinging on with his fingernails to the cliff above the abyss.

He's _so close_.

But thirty seconds turns into a minute, and a minute turns into two. The pleasure just builds, and builds; the breaking point, the one that feels perpetually just within grasp, keeps getting shoved back, tantalizingly out of reach.

Prompto's bucking up into the touch, now, meeting every stroke – trying so hard not to, because gods, what kind of loser falls apart over a hand job? But he can't help himself. He needs just that tiny bit more, and he's sure he's going to plummet headlong into the best orgasm of his life.

He's not sure how long it goes on. Long enough for Ignis to try slow and gentle, and then fast and rough. Long enough that he lets go of his embarrassment enough to reach up and rub his own nipples, then pinch them, desperate for that fraction of extra sensation he's certain will send him catapulting over the edge.

But nothing happens. The pleasure builds, and builds, and Prompto lets out a whine that's frankly needy.

After some endless stretch of time, caught between ecstasy and despair, Prompto's aware of Ignis' voice, saying, "I don't believe this is helping."

His hand slows, and then stops, and Prompto, whose eyes had slid shut to appreciate the way Ignis' fingers tighten on the upstroke, snaps them open again.

He says, "Gods, please – please don't stop. I'm so _close_."

Ignis searches his face for something – seems to find it, because he gives a grudging nod.

His pace picks up again, firm and hard and just a little bit rough. His other hand comes around to cup Prompto's balls. It's gentle pressure, absolutely amazing on the swollen, over-sensitive skin. Then Ignis' finger creeps in behind them and presses just _so_ , kneading gently.

Prompto shouts. He jackknives up off the tent floor, and the vest covering him falls aside, and he doesn't care, because he's right – he _right there_.

The muscles in his stomach and his thighs are tight and trembling; his back is arched and toes curling. He reaches out to hold onto something – finds nothing, and scrabbles ineffectually at the sleeping bag beneath him.

This can't last. There's got to be a breaking point. But the pleasure stretches on and on, that knife's edge moment just before orgasm drawing out for an eternity.

At last, Ignis' hand slows. He lets out a huff of a sigh, and he takes his fingers away, and Prompto slams his head back against the tent floor, near tears.

It hurts, not to have anyone touching him. It physically aches; his balls feel swollen to three times their normal size, and his cock is red and diamond hard, drooling precome there against his stomach.

Prompto reaches out with his hand to take hold of himself, but Ignis' fingers close around the wrist, diverting it away.

"We're making it worse," says Ignis, quietly.

"I thought," says Prompto, and his throat is so dry that he has to swallow mid-sentence. "I thought the spell was supposed to make me need someone else?"

"Perhaps," says Ignis, softly, "it's designed to make this impossible altogether."

Prompto tries to get his thoughts in order and think that through. And it – gods, it makes sense. Like hell he'd be able to walk away from a daemon in this state. It'd be just one more minute, and just one more minute, and just one more minute, unable to tear himself away.

Then he'd be dead.

He makes a sound of despair, low in the back of his throat, and tries to go for his cock with his other hand. Ignis holds onto that one, too.

He looks down at Prompto with an expression that's soft with regret, and he says, "We ought to avoid aggravating the situation, until Gladio and Noct return."

That makes sense, too. It's only rational.

Every second something's touching him, it makes the want a thousand times worse. But the way it is now, with nothing on his skin, feels like something's eating him alive inside.

He licks at his lips. He says, "That's the worst idea you've ever had."

Ignis just looks at him. He lets go of one of Prompto's hands, to check his phone and see if a text message has arrived – frowns vaguely at what he sees.

"They're estimating two hours," says Ignis.

Prompto is already palming at himself with the newly-freed hand, and he whimpers. "I dunno if I can handle two hours.

Ignis reaches out, with gentle determination, and pulls the hand away. "We'll manage somehow."

 

* * *

 

The next two hours are the longest of Prompto's life.

Ignis doesn't put a hand on him again, and for the most part, he keeps Prompto's hands off himself, too. He does his best to keep Prompto distracted – talks about topics he knows Prompto has an interest in, and tries to engage him in conversation. A couple of times, he sits Prompto up to make him drink some water.

He does his best, but by the end of it, Prompto's still in tears.

He's weak as a newborn chocobo, lying there on the tent floor, wet trails tracking slowly down his cheeks. His whole body feels like it's trying to smother him in heat; every godsforsaken inch of him burns like an exposed nerve.

When Ignis' phone buzzes, Prompto's eyes jerks toward it like a condemned man praying for a pardon.

"Yes?" says Ignis, when he answers. And then, immediately: "Oh, thank the Astrals. Hurry."

"No," says Prompto, voice a hoarse croak, and Ignis pauses.

There's a moment when Prompto hesitates – almost changes his mind.

Gods, he's ready for this to be over. He's ready to do just about anything to get the crawling need out from under his skin even a second sooner. But the thought of Noct and Gladio seeing him like this – or hearing him, from outside the tent – is the only way it could possibly get any worse.

"Tell them to stay in the car," says Prompto. "Just – just go meet them and get the remedy."

Ignis fixes him with a considering look – nods once and stands, already moving for the tent flap. "There's been a slight change of plans," he says into the phone, and then he's ducking outside, leaving Prompto alone.

He kind of hates that the very first thing he does is reach for his cock.

And gods, it feels like a revelation after so long with no contact. He whimpers and rocks up into his hand – palms at the head, borderline too rough, but he can't scale it back. He feels starved for sensation, downright desperate for any sort of touch.

His cheeks are sticky; he's crying again, and every breath of air that leaves his lungs comes with a soft whine. He can't quite stop, and he hates that, too.

Prompto lies there on the tent floor for maybe ten minutes or so, but those ten minutes feel like years. Ignis was right, he thinks hazily, about touch making it worse. Already he feels like the heat's going to burn him alive.

He bites down on his lip, and plants his feet against the sleeping bag beneath him. He tries to find the strength to thrust the way he wants to, hard and fast, into his own fist, but exhaustion's draped over him like a heavy blanket, and he just can't do it.

He's only vaguely aware of Ignis entering the tent again – of Ignis' voice beside him, calm and steady. "Here," he says, and Prompto feels the soft spill of liquid over his skin. "Here you are."

It washes over him in a wave, cool and tingling, like healing magic.

In its wake, something shifts inside of him; the want is still there, but the maddening itch beneath his skin abates somewhat. For the first time in hours, he feels like he can take a full breath.

The touch of his own hand against his cock is still electric, but this time – this time, the restless side-to-side motion of his palm is enough to _help_.

It takes only a couple of brushes – a gentle press – and just like that, Prompto's coming with a drawn-out groan. It goes on for what seems like forever, wave after wave of white-hot pleasure, until he's shaking and scrabbling at the cloth of the sleeping bag for something to hold onto.

When he's done, he subsides with a groan – lets his head fall back, eyes closed. He feels wrung out. He feels like he's just been trampled by a herd of garula. He wants to sleep for a solid week straight, but he's still so hard it _hurts_.

"Iggy," he manages, reaching out blindly for the man beside him. "It's not – not enough." He swallows, and his throat clicks. "Please?"

Ignis hesitates. His hand finds Prompto's, and squeezes. "You're certain?" 

"Dude," says Prompto, and he realizes, belatedly, that his voice is kind of a wreck. "I've never been more sure of anything in my _life_."

Ignis' hand doesn't let go. He holds on, steadying and reassuring, and he reaches with the other hand to wrap his fingers around Prompto's straining erection.

It's too much, at first. He hisses, and squirms – fights against the urge to pull away. He's been rubbing himself off nonstop for half a day, and the oversensitivity is damn near overwhelming, now that the magic's out of his system.

But he needs this like he needs air. When Ignis pauses, fixing him with a questioning glance, Prompto says, "No, I'm good. I'm – keep going."

And Ignis does, so very carefully.

This time, it's a slow build. This time, he doesn't start off teetering right on the edge.

He gets to feel every slow stroke of Ignis' elegant fingers, and the way the heat coiled inside him starts out as banked coals and builds to a raging bonfire. Before long, he's aching for it again. Before long, he's rocking his hips up into the touch, needing just that little bit extra.

He groans, heartfelt and appreciative; every muscle in his body clenches up, tight and shaking.

"Iggy," says Prompto. " _Ignis_."

And Ignis redoubles his effort – tightens his hold, and picks up the pace, and Prompto's brain feels like machinery that's starting to shut down. Everything's on the borderline of amazing and too much, and he ought to be embarrassed by the noises he's making, but he just can't bring himself to care.

This time, when he creeps up to the edge, every tiny touch driving him higher, he doesn't get stuck just before he tumbles over. This time, he throws himself off the cliff with desperate enthusiasm.

Prompto comes with a hoarse shout. The pleasure goes on and on and _on_ , so intense he's shaking with it.

He checks out for a minute, he's pretty sure, because when he blinks his eyes open again, Ignis is wiping at him with a cool cloth. It swipes at his thighs, and his stomach, and his chest, gentle and attentive.

"How do you feel?" says Ignis, tone subdued.

Prompto thinks about it for a minute. That insistent ache is gone, but in its place, he's suddenly aware of how much strain he's put his body through, these past few hours. "Like I just ran a dozen marathons back to back," he says, honestly.

"I can't imagine why." Ignis swaps the cloth out for a new one – wets it with water and uses it to wipe Prompto's face.

It's such a tender gesture. It's so Ignis, all concern and no complaint, and all at once, shame washes through Prompto, hot and thick and sudden.

"You, uh," says Prompto. "You don't have to do that."

Ignis' hand stills. "You'd prefer I leave you alone? I can fetch Noct, or Gladio."

"It's not that," says Prompto. "It's just."

How the hell can he say it?

You just watched me fall apart, and I'm never going to be able to look you in the eye again? I've had a crush on you for literal years, and all that hope's collapsed into a pile of ashes? It really sucks that you had to go through this, and if I spent the rest of my life saying sorry, I could never be sorry enough?

Prompto licks at his lips. He says, "It's just – you already. You helped a lot." He turns his head to one side, avoiding Ignis' gaze. "I kind of owe you big time."

There's a touch on his face again, infinitely gentle. Prompto glances over, despite himself – realizes, too late, that it isn't the cloth. This time, it's Ignis' fingers.

"You don't owe me anything at all," says Ignis.

Prompto blinks up at him. The hand against his cheek feels amazing, and this time he knows it has nothing to do with the spell. He leans into it before he can think it through – too tired for common sense, maybe.

"Get some sleep," says Ignis, kindly. "We can talk this through when you wake. All right?"

"Yeah," Prompto manages, vaguely. "All right."

He means to say more. He means to say thank you. But before the words can quite find their way to his lips, sleep wraps him up in a soft, black blanket and pulls him under.


End file.
